


buried alive

by Naiesu



Series: two roads diverged in a yellow wood [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fear of Death, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Pining, dorian has a crush but he doesnt super know it, until it slaps him in the face
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28102260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naiesu/pseuds/Naiesu
Summary: The assault on Haven comes as a shock to them all.Dorian tries not to dwell on the confusion, the panic they must all be feeling. The world is on fire around him, melting snow off the roofs and heating his skin until he feels like he’s burning, too. A dragon? He had assumed they were dead, hunted to extinction, that the moniker ‘The Dragon Age’ was more of a tribute than a heralding.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Series: two roads diverged in a yellow wood [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2053965
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	buried alive

The assault on Haven comes as a shock to them all.

Dorian tries not to dwell on the confusion, the panic they must all be feeling. The world is on fire around him, melting snow off the roofs and heating his skin until he feels like he’s burning, too. A dragon? He had assumed they were dead, hunted to extinction, that the moniker ‘ _ The Dragon Age’  _ was more of a tribute than a heralding.

Haven has never felt bigger than now, running through the streets, trying to avoid monstrous templars and red lyrium and fire, fire, fire  _ he’s never seen so much in his life _ . For the first time ever it scares him despite the fact that he’s able to control it.

They have a small retinue. Just the Inquisitor’s inner circle, of which Dorian never expected to be a part of. All of them doing their best to clear Haven, to save the townsfolk, the trapped soldiers, the Inquisition’s agents that are trying to hold the front lines on their own.

Somehow in the midst of everything, of fending off Behemoths and Shadows and Horrors so they can ready the trebuchet, someone grabs the collar of Dorian’s shirt and drags him backward. It takes him by surprise, almost has him attacking before he recognizes The Iron Bull.

Then they’re running, pushing their way through the tunnels under the Chantry and into the mountains. An entire parade of refugees dragging themselves through the snow, helping to push carts and carry each other’s belongings, food, clothes, blankets. They all split up, going their different ways to help where they can. Dorian tries to ignore the side eyed glares and scowls thrown his way, using what precious little is left of his magic to cast a barrier on the people around him. It protects them from the cold, the blizzard that threatens to bury them.

Absentmindedly he remembers what they had agreed on, a sign to let the Inquisitor know they were clear of the village. He raises his arm, throwing a burst of magic high, high, high in the air above them. It burns bright, casting them in shades of red and orange. Dorian looks up at it, watching it fizzle out into nothing. Silence takes over, leaving nothing but the sharp whistle of the storm around them.

Dorian stops, looking back at Haven to see where the dragon is. The town is clear besides the flicker of distant flames, and he furrows his brow, not sure where the dragon is at all.

There’s a loud  _ boom,  _ and the procession stops. Their air is filled only with the sound of whispers, shuffling feet while people slip closer to each other, hands finding weapons. Another boom, then a crack—Dorian worries, for just a moment, that the rift has split back open—before snow comes rushing down the mountainside.

_ No.  _ He takes a step toward Haven before he can catch himself, breath stoppering in his lungs as he watches Corypheus’ army disappear in a cloud of white.

There’s a great gust of wind, and Dorian only just sees the dragon’s wings before it’s swallowed in the darkness of the night sky.

It’s quiet. Too quiet, far too quiet. People around him are staring, hands covering their mouths and eyes shining with tears. Dorian doesn’t care for any of it. His heart is pounding in his chest, waiting for something, anything to happen.

“He did it,” Cassandra murmurs to herself, somewhere far to his right.

His legs move before he knows where he’s going. “What do you mean  _ ‘he did it’?”  _ Dorian snaps. He thinks about grabbing the front of Cassandra’s armor, reeling her in and yelling in her face, but looking at the hard set of her brow, the glint in her eyes, he knows she would put him in his place. “He wasn’t supposed to  _ sacrifice _ himself!”

_ “He knew the risks!” _

The people around them are staring, surprised at the sudden boom of sound. Their voices echo, bouncing between the mountains before getting absorbed in the snow. In another time Dorian thinks he might have flushed, been embarrassed enough to make a joke until people went back to hating him—now all he can think about is that the single man that made an effort to offer him a second chance is a hundred feet under, buried in snow and rock and a thousand man army.

_ “So did you!”  _ The words come out in a rush, heated from exhaustion and sadness and frustration. He motions to the people around him. “Every person here was more expendable than him!  _ Every single one!” _

It’s not often he’s willing to throw others to the wolves, but this, right now, is the exception. Without Cael what can they do? The rift is closed, but for how long? The sky is still marred, spitting green, clouds swirling angrily, and they’re just a gaggle of followers without a leader.

Cassandra’s expression shifts, tired, and her eyes fall. “You are right,” she says, so quiet it’s barely enough for him to hear. “But he insisted.”

They can’t wait any longer. Someone at the front of the exodus must make the decision to go on, because people start trudging again, arms tucked into themselves to protect from the cold. Dorian grits his teeth and puts up with it, ignoring the way his eyes itch with unshed tears he can’t seem to find the cause of.

_ It’s what he wanted,  _ Cassandra tells him,  _ he wouldn’t let any of us stay.  _ It’s just a string of excuses that Dorian doesn’t care to hear. Useless platitudes meant to settle his heart that do nothing but make it ache more. And more. And more.

By the time Dorian brings up the rear and catches up with the procession they’ve already erected tents and started fires. People are sleeping in their carts, bundled under layers of blankets. Most have made makeshift shelters, ushering the children and sick out of the storm.

He has little magic to expend any longer, but he finds his way around, setting fires and offering what barriers he can to those who need them most. Eventually the magic runs out, and Dorian hunkers down by a fire, hands held out over the flames to warm his fingers.

_ What now?  _ he has no idea. Nobody does. Without Cael they have no direction—he’s not even sure of where they could go now. The Inquisition could still function without him if Cassandra and Cullen and Leliana and Josephine all put their heads together, but even then none of them have the mark. An unknowable amount of rifts opened across Thedas wreaking havoc on the common folk that they’re just going to have to learn to live with.

Cael’s advisors have all regrouped near Dorian, and he grinds his teeth when he hears Josephine sobbing, words a mess in the midst of her sniffles. Leliana is saying something quiet, trying to reassure her, but he can’t hear any of their conversation over Cassandra and Cullen’s argument. They’re all mourning in their own way and it’s so loud he’s forced to listen. He pushes his head into his knees and tries to pretend things aren’t as bleak as they feel.

Hours later, when Dorian is already half asleep, frozen on the back and lukewarm where the fire has heated him, he stirs to the sound of hushed orders. Everyone around him is asleep in some capacity, save those who are still tending to the injured.

It’s not what interests him. People are rushing through camp, hissing at each other, and Dorian sits up, curious at the sudden burst of energy. Cassandra comes stomping by as subtly as she can manage, and it finally pushes him to stand. She turns briefly to regard him, and whatever she sees must convince her to allow his presence, as she lets him follow.

“What’s going on?” he asks, quiet. Someone’s foot seems to pop out of the snow, and he only just manages to catch himself from tripping. The cold sears his overstimulated nerves, and he busies himself with a weak flame spell.

When she looks at him her mouth is drawn in a thin line, eyes dangerously hopeful. “The scouts,” she whispers. Her breath catches in her throat, and she swallows, “say they saw a man traversing the pass. They think it was an elf.”

_ No.  _ He’s too afraid to let himself hope, so he follows alongside her, trying to calculate the odds to keep himself focused. He was in battle—twice—faced off Corypheus, stayed behind to fight the rest of the templar forces, and was buried alive in an avalanche.  _ There’s no way. _

But there is. Cullen comes barreling past them minutes later, fur robe cast over the figure in his arms and expression determined, terrified. They take Cael to one of the tents, and Dorian can only just push himself inside past the healers, the people clamoring to see him, just to see him, just to look at him once so they can say they’ve seen the Herald of Andraste in the flesh.

Dorian can hardly see him. His skin is white, white, white where it hasn’t swelled red or grey.  _ Broken ribs,  _ they whisper,  _ a spinal fracture, multiple lacerations, frostbite, lyrium burns.  _ It’s a miracle, they say, that he survived at all.

Somewhere along the way, through the night, he starts to find that little bit of hope he’s still got left, nestled among dying embers. The hope he thought he had abandoned in Haven. And now it sits in front of him, breathing, very much alive still.

And if Dorian is the first person Cael smiles at in the morning, that just makes their victory that much sweeter.

**Author's Note:**

> [naiesu_s](twitter.com/naiesu_s) on twitter


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